Prisoner
by Ra'jiira
Summary: This tale looks into the Magicka of the Realm of Aurbis. The story itself is about an Dark Elf prisoner who will eventually challenge the Mage's Guild, and the Empire itself! pls R&R, thx!
1. In blood we are born

_**Because all beginnings are some other ending…**_

"The Bloodworks. Aptly named."

"Aye, you can say that again." A massive Nordic man rumbled from beside him. "What's yer name Pit Dog? You fellers got names haven't ya?"

"Yeah, I'm Ralus. Ralus Immerian."

All around him, Fighters trained their blows against dummies, or shot against targets. The clash of steel on wood mixed with the muffled roar of the crowd put Ralus into a kind of dumbstruck awe.

"Immerian? Don't I recognize that from somewhere?"

"Oh, well perhaps, I am a poet of some small renown."

The mountain man smiled in a way that forced Ralus to question everything he had every thought about Nords. "That'd be it! My woman loves that poetry stuff—always reading it ta me—waste of time if you ask me."

Immerian shifted a little uncomfortably at this.

"Still, she'd love ta meet ya…that is if you survive." The way a man could speak so causally of death, it disturbed him.

"Um…yes, that would be wonderful. I'd love to meet a reader."

The Gladiator nodded at this and walked deeper into the Bloodworks. Ralus was now lost in an even deeper sense of awe. This place was so foreign to him, in so many ways. It bought him to thinking what lead up to him being here. Images of his wife cradling their starving child flashed through his mind unbidden, and he quickly damned himself for losing sight of priority. He was here to earn money—any way he could. If he couldn't do this, then his wife would have…to…the streets….

"Never!" He hissed through his teeth, suddenly alive.

"What was that Pit Dog? Something about mommy?"

Ralus whipped around, snarling at the Redguard.

He only smirked. "Oh, the Doggy bites?" Then, as if hitting a switch, he was grave. "Well let's see how hard. I need some meat to fight a slave from the Blue Team. You game, Doggy?"

_This is it._ "I'll fight."

"Fine. Looks like your suited up already, good. Grab a weapon, and head up to the gate. The doorkeeper will tell you when to go in." He moved to leave, then stopped himself. "Oh, and try not to die."

Ralus grunted, the verbal blows only strengthening his revived conviction. He calmly walked over to one of many armory niches in the expansive room. There was everything a warrior could want here—Longswords, shortswords, axes, hammers, maces, round shields, square shields, even a tower shield. He eyed the short blades, knowing they were the only things he could wield with any kind of speed. They were of poor quality, chipped iron every one, but they still very lethal. He selected one not so broken sword, hefting it, testing it with a few stabs.

_Good enough…hopefully._

He found a small buckler and a dented guard-style helm, donned each. Now that he was armed, if poorly, he felt a little more comfortable in the subterranean death-pit. He walked towards the gates now, mentally reading himself. He passed the washbasin with a grimace. The water was stagnant, bloody and smelled, he wondered how such a pool could refresh fighters, even if they were delirious from battle.

"What do ya think of our water, Immerian? Eh? Does it fit your poetic tastes?" Ralus turned to see the towering Nord from before, grinning from ear to ear in a more devilish way this time. Ralus struggled for words.

"Oh no, poet, I can't expect you to understand now. Of course you don't understand the water, you've never used it. But don't worry, once you've seen battle, you will see the water as well."

"Yes, uh…of course." Ralus felt a wave of unease at the Nords knowing statement. He knew it was no joke, it was magickal. Even though magicka was very common in the civilized world of the Empire, it still made him desperately nervous. All that…_unnatural_…power, it was just creepy.

Ralus shook the though out of his head and remembered he was about to enter a fight to the death. Gripping his blade and shifting his buckler, he walked towards the doorkeeper. The man smiled. _For a den of killers, these guys smile a lot._

"The fight out there's about won, we'll take the win." The crowd roared, stopping the doorkeeper. "You're new." It was a question, but more of a statement.

"Yeah, this is my first fight—I'm nervous."

"Naturally, it's a frightening prospect…"

"Yes, yes…"

Suddenly, the crowd roared with such a fierce intensity that Ralus was taken aback—even with the helmet on.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Now you'll have to wait about a minute for the stewards to clear the body, and then your up. So head on out to the gates, and good luck!" The man opened the door with a smile, letting Ralus into the tunnel to the arena.

The doorkeeper's face was plastered on.

_Damned Pit Dogs, _the man thought for the thousandth time. _Hate to see ones like that. So...weak. _The word was like poison in his mind.

He'd used that line of encouragement countless times, for countless Pit Dogs coming to the slaughter. At least pigs knew not their fate in the meat house, but these fools came willingly. He despised them; they were everything he had always hated.

_Everything I never could be._

"Good people of the Imperial City! Next up we have…"

It was fantastic, the light, the sound the….

"A vicious brawl between two fighting for everything they have…"

Standing at the gate to the arena, _The _Arena, it was beyond Ralus.

"A Pit Dog, risking life and limb for fame and glory…"

He saw people in the stands, looking intently at the gates—at _him._ It was crazy.

"And a slave, fighting for freedom, or die trying…"

It was…amazing. He hadn't felt this alive since the first night with his wife.

"Who will triumph? To which of them has fate dealt the winning hand? Let's find out! Lower the gates!"

Ralus was standing dazed when the gates crashed down in front of him. It took him a minute to remember here was here to fight—to kill—not to sight see. Quite the sobering thought really. He stepped into the arena cautiously, looking across the sands at his opponent.

It was a Dark Elf, as he stepped into the arena he held up his arm to shield his unaccustomed eyes against the sun. Hw was garbed in dirty light brown linens, with no top his toned flesh stood out like an Argonian in the Camonna Tong.

_This is no slave_, Ralus thought with suspicion.

The Dunmer put down his arm and looked at Ralus with eyes that saw everything with a glance. They bored into Ralus with a cold disgust so real it was as if Ralus could reach out and feel the hatred. He could feel the elf sizing him up, plotting out just how to kill him—it was unbearable.

Images of his wife with some pig noble flashed through his mind. That was all he needed.

"Come on, Ash-born, come! Come!" He yelled over the roar of the crowd as he steadily marched towards the elf. "Fight me, you whore of Azura!"

The Dunmer just stood there, staring at him. Waiting.

"Do you fear, you demon worshiping animal?" Ralus was getting closer now. "That's right, Animal! You're no mer, you're a filthy sonafah—"

Lighting poured from the Dark Elf's outstretched hand. Again. And again.

_By the Nine! This is no slave!_ Ralus was frantically dodging lightning, but the third cast struck his blade. The shock was overwhelming, the blade burned in his hand before he flung it away out of impulse.

The elf had dashed the short distance between them, and as Immerian recovered from the shock of the blow the Dunmer was right in front of him. His hand darted out and griped Ralus's wrist painfully. He felt intense pain where the elf grabbed him, more than he should, and began feeling light headed. The elf leaned in and whispered into his ear.

"Just think, pig, you'll die here as a _number_. One of thousands to perish in the arena." The Dark Elf hissed in a low tone, but could still be heard over the roar of the crowd. "And your death wasn't even glorious, you die a nobody—your wife whoring herself out on the streets to feed a child you only _thought _was yours!"

Ralus heard the taunts as if from across the room. The elf threw away his wrist and stepped back, looking at him with a loathing grimace. Ralus was spent, he felt as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He watched through unseeing eyes as the Dunmer stepped forward and took hold of his jaw, pulling him to eye height.

With a maniacal laugh, the Ash-born cast lightning into his skull.

Doorkeeper didn't even blink as the crowd roared in feral ecstasy above him.

_Damned Pit Dogs._


	2. The Guild

A few shout out's before I continue…

To Piemaster, the Fat Hobbit

I miss your thriving middle, my good friend! But fear not! I return to sweep you off your feet once more…if I can.

To Wes

You're gonna hate this story—stop reading it now.

To Sam Wise

Same goes for you, Lover boy

To Ms. Debolt

Ah, darling love of my life, what to say? Enjoy, I'm sure you're going to love how this twisted tale turns out! 'Til next time, my sweet, kisses!

To Jessi

You're going to kill me once I finish this, but hey, that's part of why I'm writing it in the first place!

To Steven

You've caused more trouble than I thought possible in my absence! Wait, what am I saying? This is Steven I'm talking to! Ah, by the way, I've figured out how to go todash—and it ain't peachy.

To My Sweet

You're gonna agree with Jessi for the first time in a while on this one. I imagine you're not gonna speak to me for while by the time this is said and done. So, by all means, read on…

To Daniel

My brilliant friend, it has been too long! I cannot stress enough how important it is that we not drift apart! I mean, really, there is much evil plotting to be done, neh?

Now, on with the show!

**_There can be found an echo of the end in every beginning…_**

"So, how's freedom, my ex-slave friend?"

The Dunmer just looked at the Imperial at the door. No glare, no question, just looked the man.

The man found this disturbing, very disturbing. "Err, I mean, your free now that you won, I mean, you _did_ win, right? You're walking out of the arena and that usually means that you—"

"I won, and it feels nice—_friend_—very nice."

And with that, he just walked off. Not an unusual thing most of the time, but here, something was wrong. An unarmed, starved slave just walked out of a match with an armed fighter—_without the slightest mark on him. _The Blue Team's doorkeeper watched the Dark Elf stride down the corridor in amazement.

"Un-bloody-believable…" He muttered under his breath.

"Well well well, this was worth my time after all…"

"See! Told you!"

"…But not for the reasons you gave me earlier."

"Why you little—"

Blackthorne smiled to himself as he and his cursing companion left the arena stands. His friend was not actually cursing, rather just muttering angrily under his breath. Obvious? Not when said cursing person is a mage, for in such a case the distinction must be made.

"Good-bye…." The arena bet collector spoke lazily. "Come back now…Good-bye…"

Blackthorne shuffled out of the Arena gates with the crowd then stepped out to the side watching the door to the Blue Team's Bloodworks. The slow presence of all the leaving spectators had silenced his companion who now walked up to Blackthorne with a questioning look.

"We need to start back, Thorn. We don't have horses you know."

"Patience, Varilus. The Guild will forgive our tardiness in light of the circumstances."

"Circumstances! What circumstances? I hate how you—"

Blackthorne held his hand up in a silencing gesture, and despite his anger Varilus quieted. His eyes followed Blackthorne's hardened gaze to the Arena's Bloodworks. The dark elf fighter they had just watched was striding out of the door towards the district gates.

"Wait! You can't mean to—"

Blackthorne spoke without taking his eyes off the Dunmer. "Of course I mean to. That was a wonderful display of magickal prowess."

"Prowess? He just slaughtered someone without remorse!"

"And without breaking a sweat. I'm impressed." Blackthorne grinned at his companion, then set off towards the Dark Elf. He slid around departing fans with gestures of apology and kind smiles, but kept his eyes on the dark elf standing in the center of the crowd, looking from the statue of Gaiden Shinji to the towering gates to the City Isle. Once Blackthorne came within fifteen feet of the elf, he jerked his head over and glared at Blackthorne. He was frozen, those red eyes flared with such an intense hate Blackthorne was caught of guard. In a moment he had regained his composure and continued the few paces towards the elf.

"What do you want, Human? Didn't you see the fight?" Blackthorne was astonished to see the Dunmer's eyes fill with even more loathing as he spat his words.

"I saw your fight."

"Then you must be a fool to come so near me."

"Perhaps, but I think you will find me above fools."

"Really?" The Dark Elf smiled at this, the grin of a wolf. "Pray tell, Human, why would I think that?"

"I have proposition for you."

The grin straighten, he was listening.

"I am a prominent member of the organization known as the Mages Guild, prominent enough to grant you membership in the Guild."

The grin was back. "Now why would I want to be a part of your little club?"

"How much gold do you have?"

"I don't need your gold!"

"You need food, and shelter."

The Dark Elf's hard shell was broken. Unease crept into his eyes. "And this guild, they'll give me that?" His voice was a lot less harsh.

"Yes, We have guild halls in every city here. You'll be welcome to stay at any of them as an associate of the guild, and in exchange for services you'll be fed."

"Services? What kind of services?"

"Initially, you'll be involved only in mundane tasks—Cleaning, helping the cooks, aiding higher-ranked Guild members in experiments, so on and so forth."

"Go on, I'm listening."

"That's it. Nothing else to hear."

"What?" The Dunmer was incredulous. "You people will feed me just to assist in your little games?"

Blackthorne smiled. "Exactly."

The Dark Elf still looked a bit suspicious of the whole concept but Blackthorne knew that he had no other choice. "So what do you think? Will you join?"

"I'd be the fool not to."

Blackthorne reached out his hand, the Elf took it. "Well then, Associate," Blackthorne smiled as he saw Varilus hang is head. "Welcome to the Guild."


	3. Humans

**_One can learn more of a man not by studying his achievements, but rather the manner in which he achieved them…_**

Blackthorne released his grip on the Dark Elf's hand, but kept his gaze fixed onto those horrible red eyes.

"So now what?" The elf asked while keeping his own unwavering stare on Blackthorne.

"I spend most of my time studying at the guild hall in Cheydinhal, a fair sized city not far from here. You can follow my companion and I as we return there, if you like.'

"Grand. Lead on, Human." Human was spoken more like a title now than an insult.

Blackthorne broke his gaze and turned towards Varilus, satisfied. There weren't many, Man or Mer, who could stand unfazed in his stare. Varilus did not share his joy, and was frowning when Blackthorne approached.

"The new Associate will accompany us on our return venture to Cheydinhal."

Varilus looked at the Dunmer with a haughty air of superiority, tainted by a hint of fear that came across as annoyance. "Does the Associate have a name?"

The Dunmer glared at Varilus with an equal sense of superiority, without the fear aspect. "You may call, me Prisoner, Human."

"Prisoner?" He chuckled slightly as he spoke. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's better than Human."

"'Human' is not my name, 'Prisoner'"

"Oh?" Prisoner's face was full of mock amusement.

"My name is Varilus, Varilus Benrin."

"Hm?" The elf yawned. "I think I'll stick with Human."

Varilus's face had reached such a hue of red, he appeared purple. Blackthorne didn't bother hiding his amusement. "Are you ill, my friend?"

"No, thanks for asking." He spoke haltingly, enuciating each word, careful not to say the wrong thing. It would not do to be officially marked as opposed to Blackthorne's recruitment decision.

"In that case, we should head back to Cheydinhal immediately, for as you said, we have no horses."


	4. Arcana Destructio

Well, before I begin, I wanted to apologize for my lack of updating. I've been spending time with family I never see anymore and preparing to go off to private school in PA. So I've been wicked busy…just a bit…and have not had much time to write…But excuses, excuses—Lets get on with the tale!

_**Which shows the true face of a man? Actions he has given thought to, considering them long in his mind. Or is it perhaps those things he does out of instinct, decisions made deep within those dark parts of the heart?**_

Varilus had been to the Imperial City many times; most Heartlanders had a kind of bond to the city. There was something that no one could quite put into words.

_Not that it matters much_, Varilus thought to himself._ One glance at the City says it all. _

The city was set on an island in the middle of a lake. Lake Rumare it was called, the island was simply City Isle. It wasn't a lack of imagination that brought about that name; it was the only thing that made sense. The Imperial City covered the entire island, a little symbolic when you thought of the Empire's control of all of Tamriel. A grand tower of the purest marble stood at the center of the City, a monument to Man's dominance. It could be seen from any part of the City, and the outline was unmistakable even in the wilderness. The rest of the city was laid out like a wheel, the tower the spoke. It was divided into districts, much like Tamriel's provinces. There's a park devoted to the Nine Divines of the Imperial Cult, a plaza boasting the power of the Emperor, a busy market place, housing districts, and a port set off the main marble walls. Off on hills the Imperial Prison and the Mage's Guild University looked like miniature cities complete with circular walls and short tower made of the same gleaming marble. And of course the Arena, the Elder Council's little toy to appease the masses.

Varilus had always enjoyed watching the Arena fights. He lived a good bit away, but the commute was worth it. The Combatant's strength and endurance always fascinated him, even though he preferred the magical arts. Of course, that was because he could never really…

A harsh voice. "They call this a city? I call it compensation."

The light chuckle. "Compensation? I do I dare ask what for?"

"If you please, Human."

"Then yes, for what does the City compensate for?"

"Weakness. Insecurity. A gaudy wrapping for a cheap gift, that's your City."

"Hmm."

Varilus couldn't believe his ears. He whirled on his companions. "Blackthorne, how do you stand for this disrespect? This blasphemy!"

The Dark Elf responded first, a smug look on his face. "You should keep faced forward, Human. Not even mighty, civilized Cyrodiil is free of bandits."

"I…why you...have some…Thorn, say something!"

"It's sound advice, Varilus. This stretch is sure to be infested, so be on your guard."

"Gods blood…"

Despite his anger, he couldn't really argue. Travelers of the Blue Road were often ambushed by small bands of the filthy buggers. To ward off attacks, most travelers commuted in packs or went extremely well armed. Since the Guildmages were unarmed and alone, they were prime picking for bandits. Or at least it looks that way to the common bandit. Both Varilus and Blackthorne were experienced mages and the newly made Associate seemed quite capable of defending himself, so he wasn't too worried. Still, all it took was one well-placed arrow…

_Fwip! Fwip!_

"Shields!" Blackthorne roared as he raised his hand to cast his Aegis. Arrows raining down, Varilus dashed for a rock outcropping as he cast his own shielding spell. He heard the distinct crash of a lighting cast and the air sizzling with magickal energies afterwards. The Guildmage threw himself against the rocks and looked frantically for Blackthorne.

He heard him before he actually saw him, a dull thud of magickal frost hitting something—or someone in this case. Varilus saw a bandit standing in the middle of the road, clutching his chest with both hands. There was a huge hole in his iron chest piece, the skin could be seen raw and cracked where the spell had hit him directly. Blackthorne was sprinting towards the man, tattered grey robes rippling through the wind not unlike a hell-bent wraith. He slapped the bandit's hands away from the wound then plunged his own claw-like hand into the bleeding flesh. Red mist engulfed the shocked bandit, then quickly flowed up Blackthorne's arm. Varilus caught the unfortunate bandit's face as he fell, gaunt and haggard—at least twenty years old than he was only seconds before. Behind the crumpling body, a fur-clad swordsman charged Blackthorne. The mage sidestepped the inexperienced rush then dodged another arrow. Varilus watched Blackthorne cast from each hand a ball of red mist at the swordsman's back. The mist seemed to sink into the fur, then twin strands of red lighting shot back into Blackthorne's palms. To Varilus, time seemed to stand still and Blackthorne walked towards the twitching bandit. He knew the manner of magicka, it was an absorption spell, but he'd never seen a double cast like this. The grey robed mage now stood directly behind the bandit, hands hovering in the air above his shoulders, still absorbing Nine-know-what from the trembling bandit.

He stopped, the energy ceased flowing, the bandit slumped, he could barely stand.

Blackthorne took a deep breath, raised his hands to the sky, sighed.

Varilus couldn't follow Blackthorne's hands as the plunged into the swordsman's neck. Fingers ripping muscle, blood and shreds of skin splattered on his robes…Varilus was shocked.

The Prisoner was pleased.

_This human is different, _he thought with admiration. _Different…even his scent is off._

The Prisoner had forced the bandit archer into hiding with his lighting, but now in the pause he had emerged. The Dark Elf saw him out of the corner of his eyes, arrow knocked and bow already drawn. His red eyes followed the archer's aim and saw it lead right to Blackthorne's gut—a cruelty shot evoked by anger. Blackthorne himself still stood still with blood dripping from his hands, breathing in heavy, controlled gasps. The Prisoner threw a sizable chunk of fire, but the bandit had already loosed. The fire melted the left half of the bandits face instantly, throwing her to the ground.

_Now, the Human._

He gazed impassively at Blackthorne who was crouched to the ground griping the arrow shaft protruding through his waist. He saw the weak mage rush out his cover to his companion.

_Now that there's no danger,_ The Prisoner snarled a little. _Pathetic._

The weaker one moved to heal him, readying himself like all humans had to before doing anything worthwhile. The stronger one pushed him away, commanding him to stand down. The Dunmer watched intently as he gripped the shaft harder, then snapped it. He noted with interest that the human showed little pain as he yanked the arrow out from his back.

_He appears to be more concerned about the fact that he's bleeding than the pain of bleeding._

Blackthorne took a small, leather bound bottle from his cloaks, unscrewed it and downed the contents in one quick motion. He put the bottle away and put a large silver band around his finger, then bent around a placed the hand on his wound. The Prisoner smiled as blue light flowed over the wound, even following the dripping blood on Blackthorne's robes, causing the wound to heal and the blood to vanish by magickal means.

_I'll have to watch this one,_ the Prisoner noted, the charred skull of the bandit he killed grinning while the remains of her face grimaced in her last moments of pain. _Watch him very closely, indeed._


End file.
